


Music of the Night

by opal3scence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Homosexuality, M/M, Operas, Singing, Theatre, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7856386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal3scence/pseuds/opal3scence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange occurrences in London’s Royal Opera house lead to John Watson being forced into the limelight. The audience is captivated by the young tenor’s extraordinary talent, especially Viscountess Mary Morstan, the patroness of the opera house and a childhood friend of John’s. However, John has also become the object of affection of the so-called Phantom of the Opera, a masked genius living far beneath the opera house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hannibal Comes!

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: this will most likely contain blatant abuse of historical facts because i am unashamedly lazy and did hardly any research.
> 
> PSA NUMBER 2: I DO NOT WANT TO ROMANTICISE THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN THE PHANTOM AND CHRISTINE IN THE SOURCE MATERIAL. it's manipulative and abusive af, and i want to let you know that this fic will lack basically all of the problematic elements shown in the novel/musical, i.e. stalking, kidnapping, murder etc. etc. 
> 
> so yeah. enjoy the show, kids.

_I look ridiculous_ , John thought, scratching under the heavy choker around his neck. He may as well have been naked, in nothing else but a red and green skirt-like garment, tights, and a flimsy sash across his chest. From the wings, he stared at Moriarty on the stage, who was hand in hand with Irene as he belted out his solo. For the first time in his life, John was jealous of what Moriarty was wearing. The brassy tunic and feathered helmet made him look like a complete fool, but at least it was vaguely modest.

 

“ _Sad to return to find the land we love_ ,” Moriarty sang, flashing that god-awful smirk of his at the imaginary audience. “t _hreatened once more by Rome’s far-reaching grasp._ ”

 

Just as he started the next line, he was interrupted by the entrance of Stamford, the theatre owner, accompanied by Mycroft, the ballet instructor, and two other men in cloaks and top hats.

 

“Stamford!” Magnussen, the conductor piped up. “Can’t you see we’re rehearsing?”

 

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Magnussen,” said Stamford. “But I have to make some important announcements. Ladies, gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please?”

 

John flashed a quizzical look at Molly, one of the ballet girls with whom he was close friends. She shrugged in response, showing that she had no clue what was going on either.

 

“To begin with, I’m aware that some of you have heard rumours about my imminent retirement,” Stamford continued. “And it is with a heavy heart that I’m declaring these rumours to be true.”

 

“Ha!” Irene exclaimed, as Moriarty reluctantly handed her a couple of coins.

 

“Which is why,” Stamford glared at Irene. “I would like to introduce you to our new owners, Mr. Greg Lestrade and Mr. Philip Anderson.”

 

The men in top hats stepped forward and nodded to greet the company. One was grey-haired with a five o’clock shadow covering half of his face, another had beady eyes and what seemed like a permanent sneer plastered on his mouth.

 

“We are honoured to be put in charge of running such a prestigious venue,” the grey-haired man, Lestrade, smiled. “We are very much looking forward to our involvement with the Opera House.”

 

“As you can see, we are midway through rehearsals for Chalumeau’s _Hannibal_ ,” Stamford explained. “Here we have our leading soprano, Miss Irene Adler, and the star of the show - Mr. James Moriarty.”

 

“Yes, we’ve heard a lot about Mr. Moriarty’s talent,” Anderson said.

 

“Mr. Moriarty, would you care to treat our new owners to a rendition of Hannibal’s solo from the third act?” Stamford asked.

 

Moriarty stepped forward, smirking at the group of men. “It would be my pleasure.”

 

Magnussen had the orchestra begin the piece. Clearing his throat, Moriarty began his solo:

 

“ _Think of me_

_think of me fondly,_

_when we've said goodbye._

_Remember me_

_once in a while_

_please promise me_ _you'll try._ ”

 

As much as he tried, John couldn’t bring himself to enjoy Moriarty’s singing. He seemed to be attempting vocal acrobatics, showing off his range as much as possible to impress Anderson and Lestrade.

 

“ _When you find_

_that, once again, you long_

_to take your heart back_

_and be free_

_if you_ _ever find a moment,_

 _spare a thought for -_ ARGH!”

 

Moriarty let out an oddly high-pitched shriek, as a gaudily painted backdrop started to topple, and come crashing down to the floor. It missed him - and the rest of the cast - by inches. There was suddenly an uproar from everyone on stage. John felt his pulse race as he tried to piece together what was going on. Molly the ballet girl screamed hysterically, and gripped his shoulder tightly.

 

“It’s him!” she wailed. “It’s the Phantom, he’s here!”

 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Sally Donovan, another dancer, snarled. “There’s no such thing.”

 

Moriarty was in a state of shock — his face was gradually turning purple, and he was frozen on the spot. The shouts from the cast grew louder and louder, until -

 

“Quiet!” Stamford bellowed, and everyone went silent for a few tense moments. “What is the meaning of this? Wiggins, get down here immediately!”

 

Rather than from the rafters, however, the stage hand walked sheepishly on stage from the wings, with his head hanging and his hands in his pockets.

 

“Wiggins,” Stamford said, in a deadly whisper. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

 

“You endangered the life of our principal tenor,” Anderson barked. “What have you to say for yourself?”

 

“It wasn’t me, sir, honest,” Wiggins pleaded. “Hand to God, I wasn’t there, I swear.”

 

“Off drinking, undoubtedly,” Irene muttered.

 

“Well, who was it, then?” Stamford demanded. “Who dropped it?”

 

“Must’ve been a ghost,” Wiggins said with a sly smile, causing a shriek to erupt from the girls’ chorus.

 

“How dare you?” Moriarty seethed, striding over to Stamford. “How dare you let this happen?”

 

“With all due respect, sir, I’m sure it was an accident,” Lestrade said calmly.

 

Moriarty shot him a poisonous look. “An accident, you say?” he whispered menacingly. “An accident. Well, Mr. Lestrade, I’d think it was an accident if the same thing hadn’t been happening for three years! It happens so often, and you’re expecting me to put up with it? Unbelievable. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m _not_ sorry to tell you that as of now, I am resigning.”

 

Anderson looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head. “Re-resign? Mr. Moriarty, please, you must reconsider — “

 

“Reconsider? Ha!” Moriarty laughed coldly. “I’ve been reconsidering as long as I can remember, and I’ve come to a decision. There’s no coming back now. I am leaving immediately. Farewell, Mr. Stamford, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Lestrade, Mr. Anderson! I assure you, you shall not be missed!”

 

And with that, Moriarty descended down the stairs, through the empty stalls and through the doors. Within moments, the sound of his footsteps died down, leaving the company in a stunned silence. No noise was heard until Stamford spoke up.

 

“Gentlemen, I trust you will do a good job,” he said, smiling nervously. “I think you know all you need to know. And now, I’m afraid I, too, will have to love you and leave you. If any of you need me, I shall be in Australia.”

 

He, too, departed, in a somewhat hurried manner, and disappeared through the door.

 

“Well, what are we going to do now?” Lestrade asked, gobsmacked.

 

“I wonder why he wanted to leave,” John thought aloud.

 

“Maybe it was the ghost,” Molly whispered, much to the disdain of Sally, who clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

 

“I’m sure he’ll be back,” Anderson snorted. “They always come back.”

 

“Is that what you think, sir?”

 

John jumped - he’d forgotten that Mycroft was even there. The ballet instructor moved with a fluid elegance towards Anderson and Lestrade, and handed them a piece of parchment.

 

“I have a message from the ghost himself,” Mycroft smiled.

 

This was met with a chorus of twitters from the girls, and an exasperated sigh from Anderson.

 

“What is this obsession with this ghost?” he groaned as he broke the letter’s seal. “Let’s see, now…' _Mr. Anderson and Mr. Lestrade…welcome you to my opera house…keep Box Five open…salary due…yours, O.G._ ’ Salary? What does he mean, salary?”

 

“He means a salary, Mr. Anderson,” Mycroft said calmly. “And I must say, it’s a very high one at that.”

 

“We can’t just keep an entire box reserved for him at all times,” Lestrade scoffed.

 

Mycroft gave him a hard, steely look and didn’t speak for a few moments. “Keeping the box empty would be a very wise decision, Mr. Lestrade. You seem to be an intelligent man. I’d trust you to make intelligent choices.”

 

“Let’s put all this ghost malarkey aside,” Anderson jutted in. “Who is Moriarty’s understudy?”

 

“There is no understudy!” Magnussen roared from the pit.

 

The colour seemed to drain from the owners’ faces.

 

“We’ll have to cancel the show,” Lestrade muttered, holding his head in his hands. “Two thousand seats, refunded.”

 

Before John could stop her, Molly went skipping over to the owners.

 

“John Watson could sing it, sir,” she said breathlessly.

 

John felt his stomach plummet. Every head in the company turned to him, and he felt more naked than he ever had before. He tried to make gestures towards Molly to get her to stop, but she continued.

 

“He’s been receiving singing lessons for years, and it’d be good for him to show off his talents.”

 

“Oh, lessons?” Lestrade asked, staring at John. “From whom?”

 

John hesitated - he knew how silly he would sound if he answered truthfully.

 

“I…I’m not entirely sure,” he muttered, staring down at his feet. _I must look like a complete fool_ , he thought.

 

“Of course,” Anderson snorted.

 

“Let him sing, Anderson,” Mycroft said. “Or would you rather refund all those seats?”

 

Lestrade sighed again, and beckoned towards John. “Come here, boy. Let’s hear you.”

 

The dancers backed out of the way, providing a pathway for John. _The walk of shame_. The journey from the wings to centre stage felt like the longest walk he’d ever taken. Hundreds of eyes were staring at him, nearly naked, walking with his shoulders slumped and head down. At the moment, he hated Molly for doing this to him.

 

This hate was soon vanquished when Molly gave him one of those warm smiles he loved so much. Out of all the faces on the stage, hers was the only one which could brighten up an entire building. John felt like he had to protect his modesty, but he remembered what the Angel had told him:

 

“ _Do birds sing with their wings crossed over their bodies? Shoulders back, chest out, John - show the world what you have to offer._ ”

 

So that was what he did: with a deep breath, he pushed back his shoulders and let his chest rise. He opened his mouth - and let his voice do the rest.


	2. Angel of Music

The sound of applause from the audience was enough to turn any man deaf, but John drank the atmosphere in. He smiled and waved between bows, astounded at the crowd’s reaction, and felt on top of the world, like he could do anything. He no longer felt embarrassed or vulnerable, but exhilarated, being on stage and hearing thousands of hands clapping for _him_ made him feel alive.  
 ****

 

As the thick red curtain closed, the dancers dropped their professional façade and gathered around him, gushing about what a wonderful job he did. John blushed deeply, and thanked them for their compliments. The babbling came to a halt, when Mycroft parted the crowd and glided towards John, holding a single rose with a black ribbon tied around it.

 

“Well done, John.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “He is very pleased with you.”

 

That one sentence sent John’s heart soaring. _He was pleased._ That was all he wanted - after all the Angel had done, John had made him proud.

 

“You, however, were _abominable_ ,” Mycroft snapped suddenly, at the dancers. “Donovan, such _temps de cuisses_! Hooper, you simply must get your head out of the clouds, you made the ensemble look like a circus troupe, and a very bad one at that. Come, we will rehearse now!”

 

He banged his cane firmly, ushering the dancers away. John closed his fingers tightly around the rose, smiling to himself, and made his way back to his dressing room. It was a small, minimally decorated room, neither big nor small, with a full-length mirror on one side.. The few candles made the room dim, but gave it a wonderful familiar, cosy quality which made John feel right at home. He had a small dressing table, where he kept a vase of flowers, each one exactly like the one he’d just received — a red rose tied with a black ribbon. Smiling to himself, he changed from his tunic to a simple shirt and breeches.

 

Suddenly, he heard the door open, and a small face peeked in through the crack: Molly.

 

“John,” she whispered as she stepped inside. “You were incredible! How on earth did you do that?”

 

John grinned shyly, avoiding eye contact with Molly. “I don’t know. It just, sort of, _happened_.”

 

“Oh, John, you must be getting lessons,” Molly chided, grabbing his hand. “Tell me your secret, I promise nobody else will know!”

 

With a sigh, John took up his box of matches and lit another candle on the mantlepiece, the one next to the picture of his father. He took a seat by his dressing table, Molly standing behind him expectantly.

 

“You must swear not to tell anybody.”

 

Molly nodded furiously. “I promise.”

 

“Alright, then.” John sighed deeply. “Fifteen years ago, my father died, as you know. As he lay there in his bed, he said he would send the Angel of Music to protect me. Being a child, of course, I did not believe him — but, Molly, the Angel has visited me.”

 

“Yes, yes, I can tell,” Molly said eagerly. “You certainly have been blessed, John, but tell me, who have you been getting lessons from?”

 

“Molly, I told you,” John laughed. “The Angel has been with me all these years, he has taught me all I needed to know. He’s the one giving me these lessons.”

 

“Oh, John, you must have been dreaming, surely.”

 

“Of course I haven’t been dreaming! For almost as long as I can remember, he has been by my side, guiding me.”

 

“You’re not making any sense.”

 

They heard the clearing of a throat, and whipped around immediately. Mycroft had silently made his way into the dressing table, and was standing by the door with a steely look in his eyes.

 

“Molly Hooper,” he said icily. “Would you care to explain to me why you are not rehearsing?”

 

Molly blushed, and hung her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. I’ll be on my way.”

 

She scuttled out of the room, leaving Mycroft and John alone. With one of his trademark half-smiles, Mycroft put a hand on John’s shoulder.

 

“Get some rest, John,” he said softly. “You have a long day ahead of you, tomorrow.”

 

He turned to exit the room as well, but bumped into someone outside, someone who John couldn’t see.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir.” It was a woman’s voice. “Is this John Watson’s room? May I speak to him?”

 

“I’m very sorry, madam, but he needs rest — he is exhausted after tonight’s performance.”

 

Curious, John opened the door, to see a young woman around his age standing outside. As soon as she saw his face, her eyes lit up and a wry smile formed on her face.

 

“John Watson,” she said incredulously. “After all these years, you just had to surprise me by showing up on stage?”

 

“I’m sorry, madam, but who might you be?” John asked, bewildered.

 

The woman laughed, a high yet warm laugh that sounded oddly familiar to John. “Don’t you remember, John? My red scarf — you swam all the way into that lake to retrieve it. Good Lord, you were soaked to the skin.”

 

John’s sudden realisation hit him like a boulder. “Mary! Do come in, I’m so sorry — how have you been?”

 

When Mycroft departed, John welcomed Mary into the dressing room, where she sat down in an armchair and removed her shawl. She was unrecognisable now - her hair was just a little darker, eyes a little brighter. The midnight blue dress she wore complimented her hourglass figure perfectly and although she was even younger than John, tiny laughter lines had formed at the corners of her eyes.

 

“I don’t remember the last time we saw each other,” she smiled. “It’s been…ten years?”

 

John nodded. “I remember. I went to join the opera house. You cried when I left, and I swore I’d see you again.”

 

“But you didn’t,” Mary sighed. “That’s in the past now — and here we are, now. John Watson, would you care to go for supper with me tonight?”

 

John’s heart sank. “Oh, Mary, I’d love to — but you see, I’ve been visited by the Angel of Music. He wouldn’t want me staying out too late.”

 

“Don’t fret, I shan’t keep you out for too long — I’ll be back in two minutes, the coach will be outside.”

 

Mary planted a gentle yet hasty kiss on John’s cheek, and hurried out of the door.

 

“Mary — wait!” John called, but it was too late.

 

He was torn — he wanted very much to go out and catch up with his childhood friend, but he knew the Angel was strict, and that he wouldn’t be happy. He locked the dressing room door behind Mary, and sank into the armchair, with his head in his hands, exhausted from the performance and overwhelmed from seeing Mary again. When she had kissed him, he was completely unsure as to how to react. He should have reciprocated the action, but as he ran a finger against the wet mark on his cheek, he felt his insides start to form knots - he had no idea why. Mary could never be anything more than that pale, friendly girl with the red scarf, with whom he read stories in the attic and sneaked chocolates from the kitchens for their secret picnics.

 

_“Who was that, John?”_

 

The soft, serious voice snapped John out of his thoughts. Immediately he stood up, as if he’d just been caught committing a crime, and gulped.

 

“I’m sorry,” John said quickly. “I shouldn’t have — ”

 

_“You mustn’t be distracted from your lessons. You were astounding this evening but you need rest tonight.”_

 

John sighed. “She is my _friend_. I don’t want to offend her.”

 

_“She will be fine. You mustn’t be tired tomorrow.”_

 

“I suppose I should stay here,” John relented. “I’m sorry.”

 

_“Do not apologise. It’s time that you saw me in person, now. Come to the mirror, child. I am waiting in there for you.”_

 

Hesitantly, John raised and turned his head towards the large mirror on the opposite end of the room, with his head pounding furiously. In the mirror there was a man — a tall, lean, cloaked man, with his face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. He reached out a gloved arm and pushed the mirror away — revealing to John that it was, in fact, a door. Now that he was in full view, he cocked his head upward to reveal his face; or, at least, the half that wasn’t covered by a white mask. Entranced, John began to walk towards the man — his Angel — and also reached out to take his hand.

 

_What was he doing? Who was he? Where was he?_ John couldn’t put his thoughts together.

 

The second the two man’s hands came into contact, John gasped silently at the Angel’s cool touch. The masked man leaned forward, and whispered gently,

 

“Come with me, John.”


	3. Music of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very sorry about the sporadic uploads and laziness of this chapter, enjoy!

They were off, rushing hand in hand down a candlelit stone corridor. John did not look back once, merely gazing at what he could see of the Angel’s face. He had a long, pale face with sharp cheekbones, but his eyes were what captured John’s attention the most. As the shadows on his face shifted, his eyes flickered from blue to grey to almost golden, and had an almost weary quality to them. Nothing was weary, however, about the fast-paced movement through the tunnels and passages, and the determined look of concentration the Angel had on his half-concealed face.

 

After running for what felt like forever, the men stopped in their tracks when they came to a vast body of water, almost covered by a blanket of swirling mist. A large, slim boat, painted a sleek black colour with a high point on each end was there, as if it were waiting for them. The Angel helped John step into the boat, before entering it himself and picking up a single oar.

 

“Where are we going?” John asked, full of curiosity.

 

“Somewhere I have never taken anyone before,” the Angel replied, standing up behind John and plunging the oar into the water

 

He rowed and rowed, maintaining perfect balance no matter how many twists and turns he made in his journey. The dim lighting danced across the glassy lake, and John marvelled at the caverns and passageways through his dreamlike haze, not entirely convinced that this was really happening. Eventually, the mist cleared and from it appeared what could only be described as a lair — a grotto almost completely filled with candles. Various oddments adorned the place: throws, mirrors, armchairs, lanterns, sheets of parchment scattered about the place and stairs leading up to an enormous organ. It looked like a scrapyard — but it was beautiful in an oddly entrancing way.

 

“It’s beautiful,” John breathed, gazing around the place.

 

Silently, the Angel stepped off the boat and extended his arm for John. He helped him off, catching him immediately when he tripped, and led him across the terrain. This place was marvellous to John, like something he’d find in a dusty book hidden in a corner of a library.

 

“Do you have a name?” John wondered aloud.

 

The Angel paused. Then,

 

“They called me Sherlock, once.”

 

 _Sherlock_ …what a name. John silently repeated it over and over again, savouring the sound it made in his mind. It was a name that reminded him of mysteries, of dreams, of secret passageways like the one that they had just travelled through.

 

“Did you write all of this?” John marvelled, as he picked up one of the loose sheets of parchment with a melody scribbled on it. He sang it in his head, and was both haunted and enthralled by the song. A scrawl at the top of the page read _Music of the Night_. All of a sudden, it was snatched out of his hands — Sherlock was staring at him guiltily, clutching the sheet music tightly.

 

“Forgive me, John,” he said. “I did not intend to be quite so forceful. Perhaps you’d like me to play for you?”

 

A little too eagerly, John nodded. “I should like that very much.”

 

“Very well.” Sherlock ascended the staircase, John following closely behind him, and took a seat by his organ. He arranged a few sheets in front of him, stretched his arms out, and started the beautiful, sleepy melody John had found.

 

“ _Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation._

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination._

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses,_

_helpless to resist the notes I write,_

_for I compose the music of the night.”_

 

The gentle, sombre tones that escaped Sherlock’s lips were enough to send John reeling. He had to take a step back, and gasped silently as soon as he heard his voice.

 

_“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor._

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender._

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day,_

_turn your face away from cold, unfeeling light_

_and listen to the music of the night.”_

 

John was close to tears; he wasn’t sure if he had ever heard anything so beautiful in his life. This masked man’s voice would be enough to make Moriarty weak at the knees.

 

_“Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!_

_Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!_

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar!_

_And you'll live as you've never lived before.”_

 

_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you_

_Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you_

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind_

_In this darkness which you know you cannot fight_

_The darkness of the music of the night_

 

_Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world_

_Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be_

_Only then can you belong to me”_

 

The high notes held within these verses sent John into a trance. How could any earthly being create such a mesmerising sound? He completely forgot who and where he was, just as he had when Sherlock had taken him by the hand for the first time — all he could do was listen.

_“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!_

_Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation!_

_Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in,_

_to the harmony which dreams alone can write,_

_The power of the music of the night!”_

 

This was all too much for John to take in. This _music_ , this _voice_ …there was nothing _real_ about it. His heart raced, his breathing became shallow — and everything went dark.  
  


* * *

  
John awoke to the sound of an organ, random discords from someone hammering their hands against the keys in frustration. Startled by the sound, he covered his ears, and memories of what had happened the previous night came flooding back to him. He looked down, and saw that he was lying on top of a pile of cushions — in a boat. It wasn’t on water, thankfully, but it took him a while to adjust to his surroundings as he stepped out of it. Uncertainly, he crept up the huge flight of stairs beside him, where he saw the Angel, no, _Sherlock_ , playing away on the huge organ at the top and making notations on sheets of parchment. He had the same look on intense concentration on the half of his face that wasn’t obscured as he had the night before, and John couldn’t help but find it endearing.

 

This only prompted him to wonder: what could be behind the mask? Did he wear it purely for aesthetic purposes, or was he hiding something? What about this angel was so horrifying that he had to hide it from the world? Curiosity got the better of him — and he removed the mask.

 

The noise that ensued was otherworldly, but not in the haunting, melodic way Sherlock’s song had been. It was ear-piercing, blood-curdling, containing years’ worth of pent-up anguish. A hand immediately shot upwards to cover the left side of his face, so quickly that John couldn’t even catch a glimpse of what horrors lay beneath.

 

“I’m sorry!” John exclaimed, immediately regretting his decision. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, do forgive me, I’m — ”

 

“No, no…” Sherlock said, with a note of melancholy tiredness in his voice. “Do not apologise, John. It is only natural to be curious. All I ask is that you do not try and see what lies beneath my mask again. I fear that it will…startle you.”

 

Too bewildered to respond, John merely nodded, and picked up the mask, which lay discarded on the floor. He handed it over to Sherlock, who responded with a weak “thank you” and turned to fix it on to his head. When he had finished, Sherlock cleared his throat, blinked until his eyes no longer shined and extended an arm for John to take.

 

“Come,” he said hoarsely. “We must return to the theatre now. You have a long day ahead of you.”


End file.
